Chapter 22
CAYDEN
Real friends are the guys who don't ask stupid questions. You call them up, mutter something about a fucked-up day into the receiver, and a few hours later they’re sitting at a table with you on the other side of the continent.
No one asks for an agenda. Everyone clears their schedule.
It’s that invisible bond of the Chester Street Society that’s held us together since college.
The heavy bass of the sound system thumps through the floorboards of the luxury bar in SoHo, traveling through my leather shoes directly into my chest. The air in here tastes of roasted pecans, sinfully expensive cigars, and Scottish peat.
I drain the rest of the whiskey, feeling the familiar, sharp burn in my throat, and motion to the bartender for the next round.
My private jet tore through the distance from Montreal to New York in record time, but the three-hundred-plus miles between Jade and me have done exactly zero. In my head, she’s still standing in my library. Her gaze bores into my chest, and her words cut deeper than a fresh scalpel.
Beside me, Griffin sinks deeper into the heavy upholstery of the bench. He loosens his tie, unbuttons his collar, and sets a water-stained glass on the polished wood. Marcel and Beckett sit directly across from us. The three of them didn't hesitate for a second when I asked for a meeting.
"You look like you hit a bridge pillar head-on at a hundred miles an hour," Marcel opens. He grins wide, but his eyes are sharp. "And since you don't usually flee Canada in a panic on a Sunday afternoon, I’m ruling out the stadium deal. Hayes didn't happen to cut off your funding, did he?"
"The project is on," I grunt, taking the fresh tumbler the waiter silently places before me.
The amber liquid sloshes heavily against the glass.
"The Royals are turning a profit; the building permits are through. Hayes is getting on my nerves, but he’s keeping quiet—as long as he gets this damn profile. "
Beckett rests his massive forearms on the table and leans in. He looks at me, then Griffin, then back to me. "So, the journalist."
"Her name is Jade," slips out before I can even swallow the impulse.
Silence. The three of them exchange one of those unbearable, completely silent looks.
"Jade, then," Griffin prods, taking a generous swig of his drink. He wipes his mouth. "What’s her crime?"
"She’s simply driving me insane." I run my hands hard over my face. "We tore each other’s heads off this morning. She won't stop poking around in old mistakes. Banff. The suspension. She’s doing everything she can to make sure I know what a reckless idiot I was back then."
"And you’re not anymore?" Marcel leans back. He doesn't sound mean, just almost amused, which is somehow worse. "We’ve known you forever, Cayden. You left a trail of destruction back then you could see from the moon. Now she’s with you for a few days, and she’s supposed to hand you a halo?"
"I don't want a halo!" I snap at him, and a few people at the next table turn their heads, but I don't care. "I just want her to stop hiding behind her notepad. Last night—we were in bed together. There was this incredible... closeness between us. And today everything is worse than before."
Beckett laughs softly and shakes his head. "You laid her, and then you flew to New York."
"I didn't—"
"You fled." Griffin points a finger at me. No apology, no euphemism. "Cayden. You’ve been fleeing from anything that could seriously bind you for years."
The hit lands. It bores into my gut, and because I don't know what to answer, I stare at the glass in my hand. I fled this morning because the thought that she might actually regret the night is tearing me apart inside. That’s the truth.
The shrill vibration of Beckett’s phone on the wooden table cuts the silence. He glances at the display. Instantly, the hardness vanishes from his features. A wide, soft smile I don't often see on him.
"Scarlett," he says apologetically, unlocking the device. "She sent a video of the kids from this afternoon."
He turns the phone around and slides it into the middle.
Two little girls are laughing at the top of their lungs while a visibly irritated Golden Retriever with blue and red finger-paint spots pads through the frame.
Colorful paw prints on light parquet. Scarlett in the background, somewhere between laughter and a genuine breakdown.
Marcel laughs out loud. "Just wait until they hit the age where they permanently redecorate the walls.
Ollie tried to wash Amalie with the garden hose in the hallway last week.
Juliet had told her she was dirty. Juliet almost slipped on the wet tiles, and I spent half the evening sucking water out of the carpet. "
Griffin lifts his drink. "That’s nothing. My kids discovered superglue last week. I’ll spare you the rest."
They talk. I listen.
At least, I tell myself I’m listening. In reality, I’m sitting there waiting for it to stop hitting me—that tone they use when they talk about their children. Not the anecdotes themselves. But the way their voices sound. That mix of exhaustion and... love.
I reach for my glass and set it down a bit too hard on the coaster.
"Can we change the subject?"
The three of them pause. Beckett raises an eyebrow. Marcel looks at me—not surprised, just observant—and gives my shoulder a quick pat.
"Chill out, Miller." He winks. "When you have kids of your own someday, you’ll get it. It changes everything. You’re suddenly not the center of the universe anymore."
When you have kids of your own someday.
The sentence sticks. It should be meaningless—a typical line from guys who think they’ve discovered something the rest of the world hasn't. I’ve heard it a hundred times and shrugged it off a hundred times.
Not this time.
I see Parker in my mind.
Not as an abstract concept. Concrete: the way he stands down on the white ice of my training rink, driving the puck through the markings as if he’s forgotten I’m watching.
The heavy, warm weight of his sleeping body in my arms when I lifted him out of the car last night.
The unfiltered cheering in the VIP box—not performed, not aimed at me, just real.
The way he tilts his head slightly when he thinks about a strategy.
And those big, alert eyes looking at me like I’m not the guy with the scandals, but just someone who knows the game.
My neck tightens.
"Cayden?" Griffin frowns. He leans across the table. "You’re completely gone."
I blink. The air in the bar feels too thin all of a sudden. I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth and push my empty glass away.
"I have to go back."
I stand up abruptly. The chair scrapes against the floor. I grab my coat and throw it over my arm.
"Now?" Beckett glances at his watch. "It’s almost midnight."
"My pilot is waiting." I pull a wad of bills from my inside pocket and drop it on the table. Then I lean both hands on the edge and look at my friends.
"You were right," I say. No euphemisms. "I was running away. From the only thing that should really matter in my life."